On 22 April German troops launched the Second Battle of Ypres, which would last a month and end with the Allied salient squeezed even tighter around the town. On the look-out after a prisoner had revealed plans for its use, Capt Louis Strange saw a yellowish green fog drifting from the enemy trenches towards French units on the British left: poisonous chlorine gas released from 500 cylinders prior to an infantry assault. Swiftly a four-mile gap was torn in the Allied line and only desperate defending by Canadian troops stemmed the tide, though a tactical withdrawal took place later, when RFC units also fell back. Harold Wyllie recorded that on Saturday 24 April, No 6 Sqn’s airfield was shelled ‘by a high velocity gun of about 6-inch calibre. One had to walk up and down quarterdeck fashion and pretend to be amused in case the men got a bit unsteady.’ However, it was ‘soon plain’ that the station had become untenable and the Squadron withdrew to Abeele, 10 miles (16km) west of Ypres.
On the German side of the line, Max Immelmann began his operational career as a pilot south of Ypres shortly before the second battle commenced. In a letter of 1 March, Immelmann, like Sholto Douglas having faced maternal disapproval at his transfer to the air service, described his first crash when landing on rough ground. ‘The machine got a nasty jolt from a heap of manure, which bounced it up again’ before turning over and trapping him underneath. He crawled out to find his aeroplane a complete write-off, but cheerfully added that he had previously completed 130 smooth landings, so he had no qualms about remaining a pilot. In mid-March Immelmann was posted to Rethel, 150km (94 mls) from Paris and 35km (22 mls) north-east of Reims, to fly a reconnaissance two-seater LVG. Writing to his mother from there on 14 March, he complained about lack of fresh vegetables, so ‘kind gifts’ of tinned fruit and beans and spinach would be ‘heartily welcome’. He revealed that poor weather had prevented flying that day, the highlights of which had been his dog (Tyras) falling backwards over a sofa and the slaughter of a pig on the adjacent farm. Immelmann gently disputed his mother’s contention that Germany was fighting for peace, not victory. History proved that military triumph ensured a much longer peace than negotiated settlement: on average, forty rather than seven years. On 31 March, Immelmann passed his final test to conclude almost five months of pilot training.
He remained at Rethel, where on 6 April he reported ‘snow, rain, hail, wind and sunshine alternately’. There was one piece of good news. The crew of a French Caudron biplane had mistaken the Oise for the Marne river and landed thinking they were at the friendly aerodrome of Châlons. Moving to Vraz a week later, Immelmann began spotting for the artillery, observing the fall of shells and correcting the range and line by communicating with the gunners ‘by means of signal lights which burn so brightly that they are visible by daylight’. He further explained that from 2,000m (6,500ft) individual trenches and shell holes could be clearly identified. His LVG machine had been strengthened for battle by installation of metal sheets under the tank and the two crew seats, and ‘other gadgets’ – such as racks for bombs – had also been added. During April, Immelmann moved to Döberitz, near Berlin, to join newly-formed Flying Section 62 which included Oswald Boelcke, who would have a considerable influence on him. Immelmann had flown forty-two reconnaissance or artillery co-operation flights in Flanders before the close of 1914, but chafed at lack of fighting opportunities until he joined Flying Section 62.
In May 1915 another German officer destined to become a celebrated fighter pilot transferred to the air service. Manfred Count von Richthofen, son of a Prussian officer, had followed his father into the cavalry. After service on the Eastern and Western fronts, like many British airmen he became disillusioned with ‘boring’ life in the trenches to which his unit had been consigned. He was further irritated by his appointment as assistant adjutant to an infantry brigade, complaining that he had not gone to war ‘to gather cheese and eggs’.
At the flying training school in Grossenhain, Saxony, Richthofen opted for observer training, fearing that the war would be over before the three-month pilots’ course could be completed. Sitting in the front cockpit of a pusher trainer, he found ‘miserable’, communication with the pilot impossible: ‘If I took out a piece of paper it disappeared’ in the wind, a fate likely for his scarf too unless tightly wound. Transferred to the Western Front after serving in the east, Richthofen was assigned to a bomber unit in which he flew as an observer/bomb-aimer in an AEG (Allgemeine Elektrikitäts Gesellschaft) GII machine, initially from Ostend. A chance meeting with Boelcke on a troop train in September 1915 encouraged Richthofen to become a pilot, the war after all not heading for a swift conclusion. Richthofen approached Boelcke, already applauded in the German press for his aerial victories, and asked him how he achieved success. Boelcke replied, disarmingly, that he simply flew up close and shot straight. However, in further conversations, often during a game of cards, Boelcke discussed flying in greater depth. On reaching his destination, Rethel, Richthofen began unofficial flying lessons, on 10 October 1915 making his initial solo flight.
In the meantime, by April 1915 RFC squadrons were frequently ranging beyond the battlefield. The Germans used airships for reconnaissance purposes as well as long-distance bombing, and Harold Wyllie wrote about the ‘most gallant act’ of a pilot sent to locate the shed of a Zeppelin engaged in this type of operation. On approaching it, he saw a captive (anchored) balloon with a German manning a machine-gun attached to it.
He proceeded to execute some split arse spirals round the balloon and heave grenades at it. After which, he dropped two bombs on the shed. Unfortunately, one fell behind and the other missed by about 10ft. By that time everything in the neighbourhood that would go bang was firing at him, but he got off with 20 hits. Good lad. The Colonel is still wondering how he can best describe the term ‘split arse spirals’ in his official report.
The pilot concerned was Lanoe Hawker, the German aerodrome Gontrode near Ghent on 25 April 1915 and for his exploit, Hawker was awarded the Distinguished Service Order (DSO).
The following day, No 2 Sqn based at Merville attacked Courtrai railway complex east of Ypres through which enemy reinforcements were pouring. Twenty-seven-year-old 2/Lt William Rhodes-Moorhouse was one of the BE2a pilots, who were obliged to leave behind a protective gunner so that his machine could carry a 100lb bomb to the target. After graduating from Cambridge, Rhodes-Moorhouse became actively involved in monoplane experiments, gained his pilot’s certificate in 1911 and the following year became the first man to cross the Channel with two passengers, one his wife. He joined the RFC in August 1914 and found himself in charge of the workshops at Farnborough until 20 March 1915, when he joined No 2 Sqn in the field. Rhodes-Moorhouse took off for Courtrai alone on 26 April, and like other pilots engaged in the raid, was told to use his discretion as to the height he bombed from.
Closing on the target, he glided down to 300ft, where the blast from his bomb rocked the machine violently. Regaining full control, his problems were far from over. As he struggled to gain height, according to an eyewitness, ‘he was subject to a tornado of fire from thousands of rifles, machine-guns and shell fire’. Severely wounded in the thigh and rapidly losing blood, Rhodes-Moorhouse refused to land in enemy territory, making his way back 35 miles (56km) at 100ft to Merville. There ‘he executed a perfect landing and made his report’, which confirmed that Courtrai Junction had been devastated. Rhodes-Moorhouse died of his wounds the next day.
The Times held that ‘the story is too simple and too splendidly complete in itself to need any artifice or narrative or comment; it speaks to us all.’ The First Wing commander, Trenchard, wrote to Rhodes-Moorhouse’s widow concerning ‘the death of your gallant husband … I fear that he will not be able to be replaced. The only consolation that I can offer is that he died a very gallant death, fighting to the last.’ William Rhodes-Moorhouse was posthumously promoted lieutenant and awarded the VC, the first such honour for the RFC. His body was transported for burial to the family home, Parnham House, Beaminster, in Dorset
.
The limited carrying capacity of RFC machines in mid-1915 was demonstrated in another way. Charles Frederick Algernon Portal (known as Peter, a family nickname) graduated from Christ Church College, Oxford, intending to practise Law. Instead, on 6 August 1914 he enlisted in the motorcycle section of the Royal Engineers. In France, Cpl Portal survived a crash with Sir Douglas Haig’s staff car, after reputedly falling asleep on his machine, to be commissioned and subsequently volunteer for the RFC. In July 1915, Portal became an observer in a two-seater Morane-Saulnier Parasol. He found that No 3 Sqn’s machines were fitted with bomb racks, an elementary release gear and primitive bomb sight. The main task, however, remained reconnaissance. Theoretically, the Parasol could carry a machine-gun, but in practice Portal discovered that weight determined it could not carry an observer as well. So he opted for a rifle and 100 rounds of ammunition.
Even while the Second Battle of Ypres was in progress, another attempt to capture Aubers Ridge beyond Neuve Chapelle began. Such was the importance of aerial support that poor weather prompted a delay until 9 May. Infantry were to lay out white cloth as they advanced and three Maurice Farman machines equipped with wireless were to report their progress. However, enemy resistance was so strong that not even intermediate objectives were reached. The line of attack was adjusted towards Festubert, but by 24 May fighting petered out with the British having gained just 600yds over a 4-mile (6.5km) front. The loss of an aeroplane to anti-aircraft fire during artillery spotting underscored the increasing danger of this type of operation.
During May a McCudden family tragedy demonstrated once more that losses could happen far from the battlefield. Still a maintenance NCO, James was promoted sergeant on 1 April 1915 and later that month his pilot brother went as an instructor to Fort Grange airfield, Gosport. On 1 May, William wrote to his mother about ‘great excitement’ the previous night at being ordered to stand by ‘to frustrate the endeavours on the part of the Zepps [sic] to disturb the lethargic calm that prevails over Portsmouth’, the nearby naval base. He expressed ‘disgust’ that nothing positive had come of the alert. Shortly after posting this letter, William McCudden took up an American RFC volunteer, Lt Norman H. Read, for an instructional flight in a Blériot machine. The engine failed just after take-off and the American was thrown clear of the crash, but, strapped in, McCudden perished. Before the end of the month, another personal disaster would strike the family, when Mary (Cis to her brothers) lost her naval husband in an explosion at Sheerness naval base.
James McCudden burst into tears on hearing the news of William’s death, but his enthusiasm for flying was not curbed. On 8 June, after months of unauthorised trips, he officially flew an hour-long reconnaissance operation in the Lens area. He complained to Kitty, though, that life was ‘very monotonous … the same day after day’, mischievously adding a reprise of a previous letter: ‘Please remember me to any fair maidens I know.’
By June 1915 the Vickers FB 5 ‘Gunbus’, which carried thirty gallons of petrol and allowed up to three-hour flights, had become a valuable acquisition at the front. The pilot’s aids comprised an air-speed indicator, engine revolutions (revs) counter, compass, altimeter and fuel-level gauge. A pusher, which had the observer in the front cockpit with a clear field of fire for his Lewis gun and a 47-round replaceable drum whose spent cartridges fell into a canvas bag, it acquired an early reputation for mechanical unreliability. During April 1915 one pilot reputedly flew thirty times, on twenty-two occasions having to force land. Mechanics were unfamiliar with the 100hp Gnome Monsoupape engine, but once they mastered the servicing techniques, reliability markedly improved. There was, too, an encouraging example of the fighter’s aerial ability. On 10 May during the Second Battle of Ypres, patrolling the salient, a No 5 Sqn Gunbus noticed an enemy machine 3–4 miles away flying higher. Climbing steadily to 10,000ft, Lt W.H.D.Acland gave chase undetected and from a range of 45m (147ft) his observer raked the German aeroplane. As the enemy machine dived Acland followed him down, the German observer firing a pistol, which prompted another stream of machine-gun bullets before the enemy aeroplane crashed.
Meanwhile, at home the frequency of airship raids and the inability of the defences to deter them, was causing mounting alarm. Hugh Chance, an old Etonian, had been commissioned into The Worcestershire Regiment in March 1915 and soon afterwards found himself at Maldon, Essex, guarding against possible invasion. One evening he was watching a film in the local cinema, when ‘a great roaring’ caused the audience to rush into the street where ‘a huge Zeppelin airship flying very low overhead’ could be clearly seen. Unopposed, it deposited bombs and incendiaries on ironworks near the Blackwater river, and a light shining in Chance’s battalion headquarters ‘brought another shower which fortunately did no damage apart from destroying a wooden carpenter’s shop and killing a blackbird.’
Not long afterwards the battalion moved to Epping Forest under canvas and another low-flying Zeppelin appeared. Chance presumed that ‘the bomb-dropper’ had been so surprised at such a juicy target that he forgot to arm his bombs. They buried themselves in the ground close by and failed to go off. Chance reflected that the only coastal anti-aircraft defences at this time were two Rolls Royce cars each armed with one small pom pom gun. Neither they nor patrolling aeroplanes seemed much of a deterrent, he reflected.
In Britain RFC training establishments were continuing to turn out increasing numbers of qualified personnel. One intrepid graduate was Robert Smith-Barry, later to become a formidable figure in the training system. On 18 August 1914, he crashed at the front. His observer was killed, and he suffered two broken legs and a smashed knee cap. Reputedly, he persuaded a nurse at the hospital in Péronne to call a horse drawn cab, which took him to St Quentin. From there he travelled in the guard’s van of a train to Rouen and ultimately secured a passage across the Channel to a military hospital. There his wounds healed, although he would thereafter walk with a limp and need a stick. Despite these disadvantages, he determined to fly again and in March 1915 manoeuvred himself onto a training course at Northolt, Middlesex. Smith-Barry had difficulty in working the rudder bar, but persevered to pass successfully. In due course, he would command an operational squadron in France.
Patrick Huskinson illustrated the rudimentary nature of training in early 1915 and incidentally, the prejudice against the RFC still demonstrated by some regiments. Passing out from the Royal Military College Sandhurst, he intended to join the 60th Rifles only to find flying regarded by it ‘as an odd and somewhat vulgar activity’; adding, ‘an attitude of mind which was by no means uncommon’. He therefore joined the more sympathetic Sherwood Foresters and progressed to the RFC, where he found flying rather uncomfortable. ‘In those days’, he recalled, ‘you sat behind a tiny windscreen literally on the aircraft and not, as now, snugly within it. A chilly business on the warmest day.’ To his dismay, he found that the 50hp engines of training machines were prone to catch fire, and he admitted that he did not immediately attain a high standard of navigational skills. On one exercise, he flew from Lincoln to Dover brandishing a copy of Bradshaw’s railway guide, constantly diving on stations to get his bearings, only to find that most were named ‘OXO’ – a prominent advertisement for that popular beverage. When he eventually reached an operational squadron in France in April 1916, he would have completed only fourteen hours solo.
Ranald Macfarlane Reid also joined the RFC from a regiment, in his case after active service. He enlisted in the Army on 4 August 1914 and ten days later was commissioned into The Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders. In January 1915, he went to France with The Black Watch, where during the Battle of Neuve Chapelle, a sniper’s bullet went ‘through my balmoral bonnet and just grazing my head’. Nor was everyday life pleasant:
The trenches were pretty grim and waterlogged in places … rotting duckboards. Dead bodies were numerous, sometimes in the parapets or lying between the lines … After the grim experience of the battlefields, I determined … to get above the mud
and murder.
His parents pulled strings through a family friend, ‘so I was winkled out of the infantry, despite their strong opposition to any such transfer’.
Reid underwent flying training at Montrose in a Maurice Farman Longhorn, on which he went solo. But he was soon ‘confronted’ with an American-built Curtiss biplane. Reid did not realise that in this machine he must push the joystick well forward to get the tail up. ‘So this first Curtiss flight was a disaster, ending with a mighty cartwheel and crash upside down’. He survived to ‘take my ticket’ in a Longhorn, the test including figures of eight, landings and a timed cross-country flight.
For more advanced training, he progressed to the Maurice Farman Shorthorn, which ‘for experience’ he was ordered to fly from the south of England back to Montrose. The weather proved ‘grim’ and he made several forced landings en route. The engine was so unreliable that he ‘learnt to look out for convenient fields’ in case of emergency. Towards the end of the year, still in training, he moved to Thetford, Norfolk, on FE (Farman Experimental) 2b machines, ‘delightful, friendly old warriors, pretty easy to fly, no vices, strong as horses. But … they were very slow’.
Transferred to Dover in April 1915, after a ‘not very happy time’ at Brooklands, Air Mechanic Charles Callender was not impressed with the operational capability of available aeroplanes either. At the airfield above the Channel port, brick-built hangars housed different types of aeroplane, though mainly the Avro ‘with its long skid sticking out in front to stop it from tipping on its nose’. Callender’s first job was to hold down the tail of a machine about to take off, and one day a pilot asked him if he would like to go up with him. Delighted at the opportunity to fly, Callender got into the Avro’s rear seat and pulled his hat down over his ears, while the pilot circled Dover for twenty minutes. It proved a ‘very bumpy’ ride. When the machine ‘passed over a newly ploughed field with the sun shining on it, a series of air pockets was caused making the plane more difficult to handle’. As the pilot came in to land, Callender was afraid the aeroplane would strike the clock tower of the Duke of York’s College. When they were down safely, the pilot shook Callender’s hand and revealed that this was his first flight with a passenger. Callender admitted to being relieved not to have known that before take-off, adding: ‘Poor fellow he killed himself next day in a crash.’ On another occasion, Callender and other ground staff were ordered to push all unserviceable aeroplanes out onto Swingate Downs ‘to fool the snoopers. Everything we had was made to look a lot.’
Cavalry of the Clouds Page 7